Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [71]
After a few moments of silence, Templeton said, “Thank you for coming here, Agent Traxler, and for your superb job of infiltration under what were obviously difficult circumstances.”
“I was honored to be chosen to do it, sir.”
Traxler stood.
“Agent Traxler has requested an extended leave, sir,” Wingate said, “and I’ve granted it. He’ll remain in the safe house for a few more days, then go to a place of his choosing. Naturally, we’ll be in daily contact in the event he’s needed again.”
“Good,” Templeton said, coming around the desk and shaking Traxler’s hand.
When Traxler was gone, Templeton said to Harris and Wingate, “I’ve arranged a meeting with the attorney general at five. He’s been briefed on what Traxler’s report contains, and the nature of this briefing. If he now agrees, and the president does, too, and criminal charges are brought, we’ll make our move. In the meantime, we’re continuing to position ourselves for a possible assault on the Jasper ranch. Naturally, we’ll want to resolve it peacefully, have Jasper and his people give themselves up. But if they don’t…”
“We’re ready for that possibility, sir,” Harris said.
“Yes, we must be ready to move. Thank you, gentlemen, for a fine job. I wish Agent Traxler had better information on the other groups involved in this, Jasper’s partners.”
“That’ll come,” said Harris, “through Jasper once he’s in custody. As I said this morning, sir, we got lucky. More than five hundred hate groups around the country and we placed Scope in the right one.”
“I don’t believe in luck,” Templeton said. “The Federal Bureau of Investigation does not believe in luck. We make our own good luck. Excuse me. I have calls to make.”
Chapter 25
Two Days Later
Moscow
Max Pauling had used his first five days back in Moscow to settle in at the United States embassy, occupying the office that had been his the year before, until he was reassigned to Washington. It was one of six such offices in the ECO/COM division under the leadership of William Lerner, ostensibly to foster trade and commerce, in reality providing intelligence to the CIA on Russian industry, legitimate and, increasingly, not so legitimate. He spent part of his time in the Russian city poring over reports generated by others in the division, and communiqués from CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, channeled through Lerner. He found most of the information to be of little use. A more productive exercise was reestablishing contacts with sources in Moscow’s nether-world, men and, more recently, women who knew more about Russia’s economic and industrial landscape than those in official capacities, and who were willing to sell what they knew for the right price. Pauling quickly learned from calls he made, and two lunches, that inflation was alive and well in every sector of the Russian economy, including the price of information.
Lerner had been away for the past two days at a conference in Ryazan, a hundred and fifty miles southeast of Moscow. He walked into Pauling’s office the morning after his return. A front had pushed through Moscow the previous night bringing a cold, drenching rain to the city on the broad Moskva River, home to more than nine million, and the unchallenged political, cultural, criminal, and economic center of all things Russian.
Lerner shook water from his raincoat and hat.
“You’re making puddles on my floor,” Pauling said.
“Better your floor than mine.” Lerner hung the coat and hat on a coat tree and took a chair across the desk.
“Good trip?” Pauling asked.
“Excruciatingly boring,” Lerner replied, “but that’s expected. How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
“Making progress?”
Pauling nodded. “I’m—”
Lerner held up his hand and raised his bushy, grizzled eyebrows. “Free for lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Lerner stood and retrieved his coat and hat. “Sorry for the puddles, Max. One o’clock?”
“I’ll be here.”
At one, they took a taxi